


10,000 Reasons

by mautadite



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Chapter Related, F/F, Missing Scene
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-28
Updated: 2013-12-28
Packaged: 2018-01-06 11:47:56
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,220
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1106450
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mautadite/pseuds/mautadite
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Obara left the hall. After a moment Princess Arianne excused herself and went after her. <i>Obara would never turn her rage on the little princess, </i>Hotah knew. <i>They are cousins, and she loves her well.</i></p>
<p>-- A Dance with Dragons, ch. 38.</p>
            </blockquote>





	10,000 Reasons

> _Tyene declined Ricasso’s toast with a murmur and Lady Nym with a flick of a hand. Obara let them fill her cup to the brim, then upended it to spill the red wine on the floor. When a serving girl knelt to wipe up the spilled wine, Obara left the hall. After a moment Princess Arianne excused herself and went after her. Obara would never turn her rage on the little princess, Hotah knew. They are cousins, and she loves her well._

Arianne finds her at the steps to the Spear Tower. Her eldest cousin sits hunched over with her arms crossed over her knees, and from far away, the perspective makes it seem as if the gilded spear rises out of her back like a mighty weapon, pointed and fierce.

Soft though her approach is, Obara seems to sense it. She makes no comment as she raises her head and meets Arianne’s eyes, nor as Arianne gathers her silks to sit neatly next to her. And yet her ire is palpable; it shows in the tense muscles shifting beneath her tunic, in the set of her mouth, the flatness of her eyes. Arianne rests a hand on her arm at the very moment that Obara leans back, posing her elbows on the stair behind her.

“What are you doing here?” she says gruffly, with the slightest hint of a sneer. “Your absence at the festivities will be noticed.”

“Indeed it will,” Arianne agrees. Her cousin has yet to meet her eyes, but she is patient. “Just as your departure was surely remarked by all.”

“Good,” Obara grunts. “It was meant to be.”

Arianne holds her peace; she feels that there is more to come. There always is, with Obara, within whom anger and discontent so often thrive. She is roiling with the unsaid, brimming with emotions left bottled up. Arianne strokes her arm gently and feels the tension slip free and burst outward.

“How could you stand there and drink to that farce of a toast?” Obara spits.

“Tommen has never done me any ill,” Arianne says, full of calm and pragmatism. A muscle jumps in Obara’s cheek and her arm is quick to tense again, but Arianne is not afraid. She could never be. “He is a little boy.”

“Aye, a little boy. My quarrel is not with him; it is with the five or so hands in King’s Landing trying to puppeteer him while they feed us piss. I’ll not swallow it, Arianne. They can’t brew a pot for war and say they want peace. It will not be borne.”

“Nevertheless,” Arianne presses, “you cannot throw the cup in their face. Pretend to sip and praise the taste a while.”

This makes Obara redirect her gaze, and finally, she watches Arianne with her hard brown eyes. Arianne is glad of her attention; it is all she will need to tide her over for now.

“Make your meaning plain,” she demands.

“I cannot, not at this very moment, but—”

Obara cuts across her with a half snarl.

“If I didn’t know better, I would say you were becoming more and more like your father.” 

Inwardly, Arianne smiles. A year ago, a month ago, even, the thought would have made her bristle, especially coming from the lips of her eldest cousin, to whom she had always looked up. Now, it makes her wistful. To be a little more like her father might be to her credit yet.

Arianne slips to her knees in front of Obara, and takes the larger hands into her own.

“Sweetling, I promise you that you will have answers to your questions soon. As soon as tonight. There are many things that must be spoken of, and you and your sisters will be there to hear it. Until then,” Arianna says gently, stroking her thumbs across the rough bumps of Obara’s knuckles, “do try to be friendly, or at least civil with our guests. Word of your upended goblet must be making its way all throughout Sunspear at this very moment.”

Obara grabs Arianne’s hands to still her movement. Most of the tenseness and venom has gone out of her, but she is still a picture of sullen fury.

“The northerners are not my friends,” she says, and Arianne knows that she is thinking of Balon Swann and his untrusting eyes and begrudging gift. “But I might manage civility.”

“Thank you.” Arianne remains on her knees, and rests her chin in Obara’s lap, looking up at her. Obara’s hand comes down in her hair, heavy and solid. She can feel the lines of anger that will not turn towards her; instead, Obara speaks with cold assuredness.

“It will come to war, cousin. The first spear has already been thrown; give me one good reason why Dorne should not pick it up.”

“I can give you ten thousand,” Arianne says at once. “You are of Nymeria’s blood, as am I, and she did not lead her ships to his land for war. She did not fear it, but she led them out of it nonetheless, knowing that it was right.”

Obara seems almost taken aback. She narrows her eyes further, until the white is almost swallowed by the brown.

“I speak of politics and you speak of the past. What manner of exchange is that, Arianne?”

“A fairer one than you may think.” She reaches up to pat Obara’s cheek, sorry that she can say no more for now. Her cousin’s anger is still fresh, but she is still the woman Arianne knows; when she makes to stand, Obara helps her to her feet while getting up as well. The Princess of Dorne shakes the dust from her silken robes, and looks up into her cousin’s eyes. They are still holding hands.

“Kiss me?” she asks. Obara seems exasperated, but she acquiesces without comment, folding at the waist to gentle a kiss across Arianne’s cheek. Her breath is warm. Arianne cups her by the squareness of her jaw, pulls her closer, and lays an answering kiss across her mouth, light as air. It is returned with the slightest pucker of lips.

“You have my love, Obara.”

_And you mine_ are not words that Arianne waits for; instead, she receives a brief graze of a knuckle across her cheek, and it is enough.

“Will you return before the feast’s end?”

Still sullen, Obara nods. “I shall. I will hear what needs to be said. But soon, I will tire of talk.”

Arianne squeezes her hand, smiling softly. 

“No matter that you are not her namesake. You are strong and fierce and we will make a warrior queen out of you yet, Obara.”

Her mouth is hard; Arianne kisses it a last time to soften it some.

“I do not need any ships,” Obara says. “And you’ll find that I am more warrior than queen, cousin. I need vengeance and justice.”

_Then you seek what I aim to give to you, ten thousand times over_ , Arianne thinks, and does not say. It will be put into words soon enough, and the Sand Snakes, all her fierce ones, will see it done. She leaves her cousin on the stair as the night deepens further, coaxing out the stars and bringing a cold wind that promises the bite of winter.


End file.
